


Gooey Dies in a Firework Explosion

by NullBubby



Series: Gooey Dies.zip [6]
Category: Kirby (Video Games)
Genre: gooey friccin dies, loosely halloween related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:01:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27292360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NullBubby/pseuds/NullBubby
Summary: Gooey's friends watch him die (in costume).
Series: Gooey Dies.zip [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1743142
Kudos: 1





	Gooey Dies in a Firework Explosion

He couldn’t be left alone, as it turned out.

He _couldn’t_ be left alone during one of the few times the opportunity showed up with wanted results more than evident. No use questioning it any more—partially his own fault for still not taking full realization of that playfully insolent ball, fluffed full of frantic fun far too excessive to any’s enjoyment but his own.

It’d really be best to calm down with the forced occasion. Time again, he’d learned truth himself, and with the suspected duration remaining, the effort should’ve been made to at _least_ bear it, long enough hopefully, though it was tiring at such a late hour.

“So whadisit you dressed up as?” he repeated, hopping between feet about as erratic as possible to become on an average day. “Huh? Huh? What’d you got there? It any good?”

The promise disregarded itself, a sigh and a hand against his face expressing the dismissal. “It’s suppos—”

“Uh huh?”

“It—”

“What? I can’t hear ya’, speak up a little bit, you’re too quiet.”

“Will you let me finish?”

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead.” His expression weakened.

The moment dragged on as he barely held through expectation of another interjection. A breeze slammed again, mightiest as it could become, though a futile effort was all it’d been dismissed as before countless other nonexistent annoyances soon broke his mental silence.

“It’s _supposed_ to be a ghost, okay?” His hands strutted toward a flap of the purest white robes, soon revealed a long bump upon a gentle tug. About the distance of his fingers, the foreign clothing outstretched, leaving another exaggerated glare of ahead, another inescapable exhale. “A generic one. I didn’t have anything else to wear.”

“Uh huh. Sure. Look, me here’s got this whole getup, and so’d the girls even, why din’cha get some more preparations gone going?”

He didn’t have the strength to remind him of the exact remark just missed out upon. Evident enough to any beyond himself—more likely Gooey, even if past the other two, than the very one within reach—yet sometimes, somehow, he still found himself having what could only be known as “enjoyment” with that impeding jester.

“L-look over there ya’ see—ya’ see it?” He’d already spun his face away through the growing stares and signature expressions of the other two—dressed as each other—both their mismatched hairs eager, destined to meet, yet the wind simply wasn’t strong enough to warrant such a deed. “Even that other buddy over there’s got some special-ness goin’ for him.

Seconds stepped by, as did the many unexpressed, yet still intrusive passerbys, more than enough present in their conjoined shifting of eyes toward the two of their group most evident to receive such a reaction, but they at least didn’t seem to care one bit more than to hopelessly glance on through the darkness, an outfit deep, matched with pink exclusive to such an executive, failing to puncture darkness ahead as she stared on at her doppelganger.

Gooey reached his tongue out the personalized darkness of his helmet, into the air, and waved parallel to Marx and the growing conversation. Dazed by the mere drop above his protection, he sagged, turned, and circled an unparticular patch of the street, each time his face scribbled the air in view, the googly goggles atop his face shining through as the sole sight beneath an indifferent pitch.

A shifted smirk soon broke the quietude, and before letting the chance to intrude, his hat lay dormant before the last two, a helpless struggle reigning on in himself in an attempt to near, break the inevitable conflict, at least take the blame himself so there wouldn’t be so much trouble lining the streets forward.

“What’chu two been up to over here?”

He could feel his face melting, reassembling only to freeze up against cold and dissonant expectation.

“I’d have much rather preferred her presence absent,” one began. Both were identical in the situation—neither had much of a face to distinguish their movements, neither dared creep their eyes away from their new audience, a ceremony ready to explode, brush their faces with his own and tattle his deed to all eyes met should the indistinct move be made.

“Uh huh...” None moved, even his bounding subsiding for a moment, which lay more than mere astonishment, to say the least. “What seems to be the problem?”

“If I may.” Susie started forward, hair color serving as the only substitute for regular appearance’s denotation. “I wish for an understanding as to why she must be present at the moment.”

Her clone, clad in a virtually, if not thoroughly identical replica of the suit notably worn by the very one she despised most of all at the moment, took forward to about the same lateral position. “I will not be succumbing to such a futile coverup.”

“And what might you suspect my intent would have been otherwise?” Susie retorted, already disregarded the trembly puffball before them.

“Oh, please continue. It was never my plan to see your hideous attempt at replicating my style, so I insist, go on.”

“Is that not an insult to your own attire?”

“You dearly underestimate my alteration in fashion with regards to whatever nonsense your outfit has been littered with.”

Gooey waved from the distance in the moment undergone without a word, his stupidity the best thing to have seen at the moment. Whatever the newly-formed party just ahead had become, whatever conflict the disbanded duo of outsiders stared on at, it... _maybe_ was salvageable, if action was taken immediately. Such a shame, was all he could see himself thinking, despite the dire stakes of likeliness soon to come.

Marx emerged from the wreckage, struggling with a giggle, behind him even still rupturing more deterioration of most everything regarding the sight. Tattered soon with his signature laugh, squishy bounding approaching from a near distance, his expression was immeasurable between the deepness of the air and his entire painted form.

“Well gee, what’s their problem?” Somehow, that rang as the most intelligent remark off him while simultaneously taking the spot for most genuine. He wasn’t surprised of the latter, to say the least. “Just wanted to break up their lil’ chatter spatter, that’s all.”

Again, all could be done was sigh and attempt to dismiss some subsidiary of stress from eyes to the hand.

“Ugh... what are _you_ supposed to be, anyway? Just a new palette swap, or what?”

“Uh huh, sure is.” From the authentic significance present in his words, it was doubtless his lack of understanding of the remark passed unsigned right before, by him. “But I tell ya’—getting this here grey paint wasn’t all too easy, no way in all uh... world to find it. But I also tell ya’ this hat ain’t mine. Just stole it from wunna’ those one-eyed dudes, y’know... like, those buddies that got those shocky zap-zap whip things flying out their noses, ya’ get me?”

And sure enough, his face wasn’t the same under the darker shade over his entire body—even literally, after giving a second of thought. His hat was about identical in shape, indistinguishable if he could ever tell, purple one flimsy tower of the jester’s hat, orange the other. He’d even gone as far as to change out his tie and shoes for the occasion, the latter being so dark it was impossible to recognize them as much anything save broadened illusion of the already pitch flooring of open air.

“Come on, I betcha’ll like it over here on over there. Go ‘head, tell me. I’m listenin’.”

He faced the side—maybe where their last was, he couldn’t be bothered to check—though all he received was another hard breath and a drop of the eyes. Turned back no more than a moment after initialization, the glare directed both ways was obvious.

“You’re completely useless, you know that?”

“Oh, sure.” His face held static. “It’s not like I’ve covered up for your failed ‘pranks’ so long, or decided to devote so much of my free time to hanging around you, or—”

“Yeah, yeah, shut up. You get the point.” His eyes redirected themselves toward an indistinct portion of space of just a moment ago, then turned back with a vague grin. “I’m gonna go—gonna uh, hang out with Gooey, he’s cooler than you.”

Marx leaped off toward his face’s intent, leaving him alone to gaze in on the steady, yet shattering volume of the situation ahead. It was truly no use trying to help anymore—it’d long since deformed into a lost cause, and enough speculation had been drawn from the few moments seeing at least one of them to know she wasn’t too keen on much anything against her favor. Eh... maybe it was a better idea following Gooey, after all.

Though dark, it was impossible not to notice the gentle grinding of stone against loose material of unknown source—still unfathomable upon nearing. A deep trail, it appeared, stemming from what could only be described as a wall plug atop Gooey’s new, colorful helmet. Marx looked ready to pounce over him and snag it off any moment, though it was harder to tell whether he was more so interested in the material or the shininess of gleaming, yet still dull trio of stripes, blue, then a slightly wider of deep red, then blue again, close to simple metal in view by the sheer lightlessness of the situation.

“‘Ay. Buddy-o-buckeroo.” Gooey still slopped forward, careless, inevitably going to hit the ahead fence in the leading minute under such a slow pace. “You hearing me? Neat-o. So what’cha wanna do is just lightly give your tongue some of that space above your head. Go ahead and do that.”

He stopped, suddenly, and so did his sole company. He eyed the starry sky, the full moon loomed over the neighborhood of temporary treats, his favorite delight, no doubt, then back to the ground ahead and began to slouch. One moment flew by, then the next, and a hollow clunk came of the rim of the helmet touching the ground, finally.

“Come on, go ahead,” Marx continued, more impatiently. Another outcry of what may have been nearing a shout filled the openness surrounded, leading.

He didn’t budge, and a foot soon nudged him to the side, forcing a wobble. Dazzled by the minor light show in one backyard ahead, most likely, he didn’t attempt a prevention of the repeated motion beside himself, instead succumbing to usage as a seesaw for a good minute or so until boredom eventually unleashed its wrath, menacing solely ever to the very one hindered by the same at the moment.

“Just... come on! Gimme it!”

Eyes neared, finally, approached by a set of squinted, soon neutralized glance. Intrigued, he sighed softly and galloped toward his rear for confirmation. Again, a googly gaze filled his view.

“Alright, that better? Like go doin’ that now, hand it off, n’—” His handheld rush in place halted, then did his pupils, eyeing around in case of any onlookers. Though immediately noticed, given another facepalm in his direction, he didn’t care. “Lift your tongue.”

He was quick to obey, though simply out of arbitrary continuation of tradition—a quick rub of his own head, but for much longer than ever appeared before. Disappointed, his tongue sagged atop the plug, limp for words alone to guide next movement, if he was feeling it at the moment.

“Now go and, like, grab it.”

Another gust blew its insignificance, allowed a measly plop against the cement and little else until being vaporized nearing the only conversation. By then, any hope of a passerby getting warped into the dispute to possibly cut them off—even if somehow on lesser terms than met upon—was lost, due to all’s noticing of who exactly was the cause of the disturbance.

More impatience dwindled from both spectrums, and it almost looked his own head was hurting of all the messed conversing he’d been unknowingly dragged into. Just one of those two would’ve been bad enough, but of course both had to have been invited, of course they’d both showed up, and of course they’d had to have chosen the worst outfits possible to select for the given situation.

“Gimme!” he continued to shout, but he didn’t care for much else than tasting a new portion of the floor.

His hat fell, immediately surrendered to the relentless stamping of his foot above, eyes squished shut for whatever expression was being attempted. If he’d just opened his eyes any moment following, he’d have seen something along the lines of his intended result, though with the growing sounds of current flowing from the merest motion of his tongue, the moment of obliviousness didn’t last long.

Soon, the helmet lay packed with some coated outer layer, filled by likely a press of some hidden button or compartment tucked beneath the plug, though it was more than uncertain without going close enough to inspect each individual character on the fireworks’ packaging. Sparks closed the gap of darkness behind, his face still itching for something to arrive to the forever emptiness of air in front of himself, and another expression shot open.

“Ha, that’s more like it!” his short-lived speech sounded.

More cracks and spurts of electricity grew, attracting even one of the Susies’ attention, moments passed, the other, after a lone strayed far enough from the bunch. Sound abnormalizing, illumination exploding among the paled moonlight, the entrancing stance of the evidently unknowing lump of all its source, his tongue lashed out against the wire behind him, groping for it, begging it to reach his head with just some motivation.

Threat obtained, the dangler lay still above the newly-formed contraption of his body in entirety. Marx stepped back, though only out of sheer awe at the whole array of lights, all the while, three flailing pairs of hands silently pleaded out their hardest wills to not combine the power with impending doom. Surely, the helmet itself should’ve rang louder than any else at the moment—its myriad of possible sources, however it was supposed to contain such energy without noticeable power provided, how it’d even garnered its color in the first place—yet all laid to mind was the sight ahead, detrimental source to all three helplessly gazing on in inability, a cheerful jester beside so unaware of the imminent danger he couldn’t possibly recognize.

“Well would ya’ look at that!” he continued, then the line finally reached its destination, illumination more expansive than the sun’s rays creating a fantastic performance in the soon moment succeeding his liftoff.

A wonderful applause, it would’ve been.

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't supposed to be a Gooey Dies but oop it happened anyway.
> 
> Also super duper rushed Halloween special so dang friggit to that and my lack of self-reminder that the day was coming up.


End file.
